Monster Squad - Halloween Teaser Chapter
by Grigiocuore
Summary: Shawn Spencer, gifted detective turning upside down a whole PD and his best friend's life. Crimes, gags, cheesy Pop references. Just the same story, really. Except the fact that the Head Detective is a Civil War vampire, his junior partner is a were-wolf, Burton Guster is a otherwordly jinn and Shawn's Dad works as a vampire hunter. Okay, maybe it is a bit different.


_Happy Halloween Psych-os! This is my very personal gift to you all: and also a sort of homage to Urban Fantasy series like Anita Blake's world, one of my first book in English and one of the funniest, fullest, most exciting alternative world I've ever read about. I grew up with that and Anne Rice, so the vamp kink is always near. Anyway, this is a sort of introduction- teaser chapter for a long-fic set in a Preternatural AU. I've got some pretty ideas, but I also have a big pile of projects, and would prefer to concentrate on the most cherished ones. And making the cover, c'mon, it has been too much fun._

_Thanks for reading, and let me know if you would like a full story along the line._

**Monster Squad**

**-Teaser Chapter-**

_1989_

"_The coffin lid slided slowly, ghostly echoes swirling along the cathedral's ancient glass walls; the air was heavy with incense and whimpering souls. Lady Rosalie stared at the grave, long-lashed blue eyes opened wide, whilst a pale hand clenched the stone and Klaus, her wonderful, angelic nightmare, emerged in a blur of dark velvet. -No, no, don't come closer, Evil Count of Darkness- she whispered – the vampire hunter will be here any moment, and he will kill you...- I can't bear to witness such a slaughter.- _

_He let out a silky laugh, shaking his luxurious raven-black curls. -Don't refuse me, milady- he took a step forward, every gesture a miracle of smoothness and grace. -I've waited in a crumpling bed for centuries, fought princes and kings, drank the gods' very blood, and all to find you aga..."_

-Shawn!-

His dad's voice rang just behind his back. The boy calculated rapidly: less than three feet away, so no time for retreat and no time to tuck Gus's magazine under the couch's cushions. Diversion chances, ze-ro.

_Crap_.

-Yeah Daddy dearest?- the boy turned, offering his pope his best encouraging grin.

Henry seemed way less encouraging. -What were you reading, son?-

-Uh. Granpa's grimoire?-

-_Shawn_.-

He sighed, sinking in the sofa. -Fine. It's "Vampire Chronicles Part III", Gus bought it yesterday.- He beamed suddenly. -So you could say it's his fault, right?-

A sigh. His dad slipped off the crossbow holster, sitting beside him; the golden eye sewn on his sleeve glittered softly. -Shawn, you know I don't want you to read that crap.-

-But Dad, it's awesome! And vampires... vampires are so _cool_. They are super-strong, and have super-senses, and they don't have to wear tights like superheroes! I know you're with the good guys, but.- he began to rumple his magazine, biting his lip.

-But why do you have to kill them?-

The silence fell like a damp coat. Here we are, the question Henry had expected for four years, since the day he took his son to the basement and showed him the cedar box of Grandpa's tools that brought both madness and glory to their family.

_And leave to Shawn to ask uncomfortable questions_. He gritted his teeth.

-Shawn, I know, okay? I'm not so out of the world. I know that on the TV and movies and books vampires are charming and, well, cool...-

His boy looked like he had just swallowed a lemon. -Dad, you aren't allowed to say "cool".-

-...But, that's not the truth: being a vampire is not like plastic surgery; it doesn't mean magically becoming beautiful and immortal and young without consequences. Life doesn't give anything for free, and neither does death. Becoming a vampire meant being slave of uncontrollable cravings, losing all that defines you as a human being. It means giving up having feelings and following your path. And the worst is, you don't even regret it.-

-But all the people who are transformed and don't want it?-

The man stretched his hand, brushing Shawn's tangled hair and trying not to think about his first vamp victim; the fear in her eyes when she realized she was still there and his stake would smash her heart.

-It's...it's exactly for them that we fight: to free their soul and let them return to their natural sleep. And to prevent other persons to suffer the same fate.- He said the same words his father had said him. - Vampire Hunters exist from the beginning of mankind, men and women who use themselves to watch the creatures beyond humans; who choose to know unbearable things and keep unreachable secrets just to let others live in their little neat worlds. We are the shield of civilization, the crack between night and day, the light thrust under the bed to shoo the monster away. And even if now monsters are acknowledged by society and people has started to look at us like some sort of freaks, in the end they'll always need us. They'll always need who really knows what's under the bed.-

Shawn shot him one of his startling gaze, the ones who hit you right at the center of your chest. -Dad. Have you ever talked to a vamp?-

A pause. -No, not really, son.-

-But so why are you so sure they're all those things?-

He opened his mouth, silently. The answer was pretty simple, stuck somewhere in the throat.

_I'm not sure._

But he didn't say that, and got up from the couch. -Shawn, I've just killed a pretty tough ghoul, I'm too tired for the interrogatory. Now go to kitchen, we'll brush up Abelard' Fairies classification.-

With a low growl the kid slid down the cushion and slumped toward the isle, casting him vengeful glares over the shoulder. God, how he missed Maddie in these moments, the scent of verbena and burned herbs in her hair, those hands that could heal and hurt with a single gesture. Let him hate me, he thought, but don't let him walk around like a fool. Not seeing the things he's born to see.

And walking to his son, Henry remembered the Spencers' motto.

_Never retreat, never close your eyes._

_Today_

Shawn didn't believe in stereotypes; part because meant also a good amount of , part because, well, he kind of lived in a stereotype: one lonely, stern vampire hunter teaching his only son his secrets and his deadly blows. Shawn had instead learned that supernatural hard work was exactly like every other hard work: so joints-aching, sweat-soaked and full of endless lessons and ungodly camps in the woods and callouses from too many trainings. And no, judging by his dad's appearance Vampire fighters dressed more like a mix of a cop and a Battlestar Galactica fan than in black studded leather. So Shawn had done what he was best at: throwing out of the door three quarters of Henry's wisdom and whisking the rest with a generous dose of pop culture and eccentric charm. And like the best part of his ideas, it accidentally worked: because really, which hellish offspring would give a second look to the sloppy, babbling dude in Cinnamon Fair shirt?

Until said dude locked him in a Prison Coffin, sure.

The sprang of an horn made his head nearly collide with the Blueberry roof. Shawn growled, sticking out the head out of the car window and casting a glance to the dark. In the lane behind them was a very rusty Beetle, with a very pissed old man behind the steering wheel.

-Gus, a grandpa is honking us. _A grandpa_. Don't you think you should go a little faster?-

-Sorry Shawn if I'd rather avoid a terrible night-time accident by keeping a reasonable speed. And don't call him "grandpa". It's really rude.- His best friend turned for the briefest moment, his sulfurous yellow eyes glaring to him. The silver arabesques on his head shone in the headlights.

-C'mon, man, you can't even get really injured. It's one of the vantages of being one of the Airy Guys.-

Gus rolled his eyes, turning left along Street. He was the heir of one of the California oldest Jinn families, blood streaked with ancestral knowledge and bone-shaking magic, and still Shawn hadn't ever known someone as Good Guy as him. It was always a little startling see this lean young man, ebony skin speckled with gleaming knots, going around in kaki pants and flannel.

-That could be true, Shawn, but the same doesn't apply to you. Chasing unholy creatures around is dangerous enough, thanks a lot.-

He faked a sigh, feeling a smile surfacing his lips. He remembered the first time a ghoul ripped out his skin, the night Gus spent with him at home, waiting with a bunch of untouched chips that Henry came home one more time.

_His flannel, floating best friend._

-Okay, mommy dearest. We'll be super careful. But we better hurry, or the Precinct would close.-

Gus didn't ever bother to glare. -Ah, very funny, dude.- His fingers clutched the wheel. -Seriously, Shawn: are you still sure about the whole Not Kill thing?-

This time the sigh was anything but fake. And here we are at their talk, along with recession, earthquakes and all the other inevitable catastrophes. From the Vamps Outing in the late sixties, _yeah, hippies and blood suckers, great timing indeed_, the public opinion on Vampire Hunters became a very hot debate. A lot of legends were discharged, some undead picked up valuable public positions, people found out that vamps too shop in Wall Mart and love caramel popcorns. Suddenly the heroes fighting bed time monsters had become shady figures too eager to pull triggers, and the bed time monsters had began to suspiciously look like eccentric neighbors. Sure, the Hunters were never publicly blamed and they kept dealing with all the blood and fangs on this side of nightmares; but gradually they dropped to the dustmen' degree: useful, laudable, but no one would really like to deal with them. No one wanted to know that a normal guy would shoot the pale ice cream girl at the first clue of danger.

Shawn Spencer, after his dad's anger-pumped lessons, knew better: he obviously knew that t Vampire Masters' nests aren't retro lounges, or what really happened to a body during the transformation. He knew that there was nothing erotic in a bite, and that it resembled a lot more a smash of fangs and flesh and sickening pain. But nonetheless, he still didn't think Vamp crimes should be treated so differently from human ones: we live in a world of matter, of laws to old to understand us and facts too dumb to have a real meanings, and in the matter dying by a bite or a gun shot was exactly the same. For Shawn, Evil was in minds, not in nature; and everyone should have the choice to fight and change. So the night he fought his first objective, heart still smashing against the ribs and fingers shacking around the stake, he decided that he would kill no more, and treat vampires and monsters just like every other criminals. That he would be not an Hunter, but a Finder.

His dad hadn't been overjoyed.

He squeezed his eyes, trying to brush away the memory of that night and_ the smell of blood on his hands_.-Gus, please, give me a break. You know damn well my opinion.-

The air in the cabin began to itch, swirling with his best friend's awkwardness. -I know, Shawn. And you know that I'm completely with you and that I found your wish unexpectedly matura and touching, especially for someone like you.- _Whoa, thanks pal._ - But you can't deny that it made the whole Hunting unbelievably tricker, and difficult. And you expose yourself more than ever.-

-Gus, how many times do I have to say that? Vamps are not so different from...-

-...From humans, Shawn, exactly.- Gus strolled along the desert street, casting him a glance in the rear-view mirror. -And humans can be pretty horrible. And anyway, they _are_ something else. You can't deny that.-

-Well, so I should shot down them all? Even you, Mr. "I live in a tiny shiny lamp"?-

-Ehy, that was racist.- His best friend sulked in his seat. -I mean that Vamps are different, Shawn. Every supernatural creature has some quality, a twist from mankind that gives them power or damnation. But vampires, vampires didn't have something more: they have something _less_. They've been touched by death, at least for a moment; and they could never have that moment back. They could never make the fabric whole again.-

Shawn sank in the seat, crossing his arms. A name lingered between them. Neither said it.

-I can't stand when you go all grandma-like, Gus.- He snorted. -And check the shirt collar. You don't want Jules think you're shaggy, do you?-

The Jinn grumbled something. -I'm not the one who should check his appearance, Shawn.-

-The Count Chocula shirt? Come on, _it's a laugh riot_!-

Gus didn't comment, while they pulled in the precinct courtyard and the little blue car stopped near the flowerbed. Shawn opened the door, grabbed his sack and looked up at the Monster Department.

The Santa Barbara Preternatural Department, or SBPRD , was an eccentric mixture of a Colonial Mission and a Victorian haunted house: everything balancing between comforting care and decay. Warm yellow plaster, tangle of black gnarled brambles along the path; dark iron creatures twisting and flashing fanged grins from the double doors; red shingles hovering over the eerie knights and dragons of the glasses. It was way behind midnight, but the cops inside were barely at the first coffee. Or whatever they drank.

Shawn strolled past the gate: the air was moist, thick with the scent of verbena and hawthorn, fiercely blossomed against all seasonly laws. A dryad as secretary really came at hand sometimes.

-Did you pick the for McNab, Gus?-

- Yep. I still can't quite understand how a Fae could be a cop, with all the iron stuff around.-

-Not to say with glittery-glittery wings spurting over the uniform.-

They reached the gate. Shawn froze under the light, just abruptly enough to make Gus stump against him.

-Ouch!-

-Dude.-

-What now?-

-The collar.-

Gus sighed, glaring at him with all his gold-eyed intensity. And straightened the shirt.

-Atta boy. Okay, let's go to work now.-

He pulled the doors with a cringe of joints, and they were within.

It was always hilarious how comforting and absurd it felt. Rookies ran around with pile of reports and steaming cups, but their eyes glowed of wrong colors. Oil lanterns hang from stone arches. The air smelled of printed paper, fur and a vague hint of sulfur.

Chief Vick's precinct was not the first department specialized in supernatural crimes; but was the first in the USA were _the cops _were supernatural. When it had been created, the scandal and offense had wavered in the city like a seaquake; and when no amount of referendums, ballots, petitions, menaces made the mayor flinch, the intolerance took its never out-of-fashion way: mockery. The PD had become the Monster Dept, the Freak Police, plus a profusion of variations appearing in gas station bathrooms, rocks thrown against the glasses, painted in shit or chicken blood on the cars in the parking. Until the outcomes began to come, the dissatisfied' asses to be saved, and suddenly, suddenly it became just the Monster Squad. The efficient, serious Monster Squad, always within the laws, always ready for a crusade. Like the man who lead it.

And who was currently at the exact center of the chaos, hands pinned against the hips and barking orders to every breathing thing on his passage.

Shawn strolled toward him. -Ehy, Lassie-face. Busy night, I bet?-

His target sharply looked up, not friendly at all.

Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective of the Monster Squad, century-old immortal and second in command of the Vampire Clan of Santa Barbara was the least supernatural vampire Shawn had ever met. Not only for the polyester shirt or the marine-style hair. He moved with stiff strides that didn't spread any surreal grace; his voice, even if pleasant, didn't resemble in the slightest silk or velvet. More a good sturdy cotton, or something along the line. In short, you could almost mistake him for a human. Until you see the pearl-white, polished skin, the purplish shadows around his eyes; and the blue fire burning under his eyelashes and sucking lights that shouldn't be there.

-What do you want, Spencer?-

Did he mention that he was also the most grumpy bloodsucker he had ever known?

Shawn sighed, propped himself on a desk which definitively belonged to a certain detective. -Well, we kind of understood that our favorite PD had just got a new case.- He began to fiddle with the sepia-colored photo on the desk. -And a pretty juicy one, eh, Lassie-fang?-

Lassiter's growl would be alarming even without the fangs. -I told you not to ever call me like that.-

-Man, you're wearing a black cape. You're practically calling for it!-

It had been a long time from the days he could actually blush, but the detective still had the quick quirks people used to hide it. -It's-it's not a cape, it's a frock coat. They are very decent and practical.-

-Yeah, my great-great-grandpa would totally agree.- Lassiter cast him a murderous glance, and Shawn grinned contently. Their quarrels had been fierce, at least at first: wary loops of two men used to lead the world and sniffing the other. But somewhere along the way the duel had become an habit and then a game, their personal way to come into contact. They never met. They _collided_.

It would be even more satisfying, if a portion of his mind wouldn't be so busy with the way the heavy outdated cloth outlined Lassie's hip.

-Cool down guys.- a female, smooth voice floated over them. Tickle of heels, rustle of silk blouse.

-I think this place is noisy enough without your masculinities clashing.-

A young woman strolled along, blinding them with her trademark bone-melting smile. Juliet O'Hara, detective junior and Lassie's partner, seemed pulled out a late-forties movie: fluffy gold curls, sun-kissed skin, kissable pink lips; if Carlton's eyes were pure, stormy light, hers were a comfortable blue you would like to wrap in. She was the latest addiction to the Monster Squad; she had been a very promising rookie in Miami homicide district, before being transferred. Before a screaming and bleeding beast had nearly skinned her back, and tore her from other humans.

-Ehy Jules- Shawn hopped down the desk, switching to his Charm Move number five. -You're striking today. Any news from FairGirlsland?-

-Pretty good, thanks. And what from StillFifteenLand?-

- Uh. Touche.-

-How has gone your test this month?- Gus whispered, and if he could actually felt pain, Shawn would have left his shins sour. A very untimely question, leave it to Gus. But you leave him also the purest interest in the whole world.

Juliet licked her lips, starting to answer, but Lassiter swiftly talked over her. -It went well.- he hissed -and Guster, I don't think this is a question to ask a lady.-

Said lady gave him an elbow shove. -Yes, it seems that even this plenilune I wouldn't howl to the moon.- She lifted her gaze to her partner. -And Carlton, we're in the 21nd century: ladies vote and talked about condoms, so about Lycanthropy tests too. Deal with it.-

-I deal with it _perfectly_, thank you very much. I just think that the fair sex is made for occupations less trivial.-

-Yesterday you make me chase that suspect in the sewers!-

-Ah, what does it mean, you're not _always_ a woman!-

Shawn observed them, mesmerized. They bickered and moaned about each other, they sneaked to the chief and dared the other to dumb challenges five days a week. They were the most professional persons he had ever met, and still around each other they became five-years-old. Shawn recognized true friendship when he saw it.

-Aehm. Guys. This version of Werewolf-vampire duel is very entertaining, I swear, but I kinda understood we're here for a case.-

Lassie stopped mid-sentence, composing himself. He went still as every old vampire, and this was never a good sign. -Spencer, I don't think it would be a good idea. This is a very...delicate question. We need to move with caution.-

Mmm. He had not insulted him. Nor a single time. Not a good thing either.

The last straw was Juliet crossing her arms.

-He's right, Shawn. The Chief was very reluctant to let you step in, and we didn't agree either.-

-Because you feared we'll solve the mystery dashingly and gloriously?-

-Because we feared you'll end up reduced to bleeding strips of flesh. Not metaphorically.-

Oh. Gus and Shawn shared a look. That was not the expected answer.

-Mmm, well. You said that to us almost every time.- Not_ with that tone, though._ - so can we skip the Big Suspence Moment and go with it?-

Lassiter's gaze turned to blue supernova. He was angry, but that had nothing to do with his power. He had probably had that murderous look even two hundred years back. Lots of hunters, namely his sweet daddy, thought that vamps totally lost their personality an d human moods after the transformation, entirely replaced by the cold power of death. Watching the detective's eyes, Shawn had begun to suspect the thing was a lot more complicated.

-Very good, Spencer.- He spitted, turning back in a dash. -You know the way.-

Jules shook her blond ponytail, running after her partner; Gus smacked Shawn's arm with anything but intangible force. He ignored him.

Lassie had never been exactly cheery about them working with his squad, but this time there was something else. He was furious, and you got so angry only when you're scared to Hell and the dumb persons around you didn't understand it. Carlton Lassiter had been one of the fairest colonels of Civil War. He chose well the things to be scared of.

Shawn suppressed a shiver.

Above all, an hunter is trained to see. To spot hesitations, cracks, to evaluate times and delays. Above all, a good hunter knew the difference between what _should be _and what _is._

The tall detective was at the Chief's door, code black swirling behind him.

And Lassie's eyes had lingered on Shawn a second too long.

The Chief's office had always been an interesting place. It was a comfortable, not over-sized room leaning out in the PD's corridor; and it gave the dazzling impression of a manager office collided and mixed with Merlin's cave. The Ikea bookshelf was lined with thousand-years-old grimoires, the computer monitor on the desk hovered over monsters and gods carved in bones; the family photos rested next to dusty jars filled with eyes and powders and nameless creatures. Across the shutters of the two glass-walls, you could spot the alder Vision altar. It was correct, functional and absolutely not human.

It was one of the reason Shawn liked the chief so much.

Karen Vick was a thin, blond woman who became detective at twenty-three and had been kicked off the force when she had become the heir of the Maranelle family, one of the Five Pillars of the Witch Guild. Contrary to what a lot of people loved to think, being a witch is not a choice: you can't become a true witch just with a wand or an handful of new age herbs, and you can't give up your powers just not using them and opening a flower shop. Magic works like any other supernatural power, so fierce, hard and irremediable. The magic roots itself both in your body and your spirit: changing in the incomprehensible tangle of forces that makes us move and breath and think. As power, magic was nothing but life force, just twisted and shaped in another form. You own it; it owns you. And Vick's one should be impressive enough to make crawl the skin crawl in awe. Not to Shawn and the magic sense of an hamster, but anyhow.

The Chief toyed with her pencil, glaring at his slumped posture.

-So, Mr. Spencer. I suppose my detectives have already warned you about the particular status of this case.-

-I have gotten this neat impression that there's something bad coming.- He paused. -Well, _worse_ than usual.-

-I have to agree on this, despite the poor expression. However, I don't like to talk around thin air. I'll expose you the bare facts, Shawn: that and nothing more. Then you could choose in total freedom if you consider to accept the case or not. In _total freedom_, Shawn.-

Shawn frowned, and could glimpse Gus's gold aura thickened with confusion. He cast a quick glance to his right, but Jules was pointedly in Serious Cop mode.

Twice "Shawn"? Gah.

-Mmm. It's very thoughtful, Chief. But we kinda really need the...- _Money for the Cable TV? _-...thrill. Of the case. Yeah. Go with it, boss. It couldn't be that bad.-

A trickle of night sizzled in Vick's eyes, as every time she fought between tenderness and murder.

-Very good, Mr Spencer.- She pulled back one of the desk drawer, pulling out a neatly-fasciato pila of photos and throwing it toward them. -Yesterday morning the Day Police has found two bodies on Southern Beach, under the pier. A male human and a female vampire, both found tied in thick silver cable. The cause of the death is quite obvious.-

Shawn picked up the snapshots, drawing them up and sparing Gus the trouble to gag.

The photos were set mainly on the beach itself: among the blur of crime scene tape and rookies' feet, he spotted expanses of purple and white and gray that looked awfully like human bodies, but in a totally wrong way.

Yet, he kept looking without a flinch.

He searched for the other photos, the ones from the morgue: there the light was neater and the bodies were more in focus. They were both naked, and still wrapped tightly in the chain. The man had been young and well-built: marine-style hair, strong jaw. Thick muscles bulged under teeth of silver, sunken in the skin enough to pour purplish abrasions; and an ugly gash had sliced all the way to his navel. To Shawn it reminded unpleasantly Uncle Joe and the Thanksgiving Turkey.

_Whoa, another coo-co. Peachy._

He tried desperately to stop thinking about smashed turkeys and turned to the female's photos. Raven-black curls, firm curve. She had been pretty, but not beautiful: vampire nature crystallizes you in a everlasting fullness, but after death really grabbed you and the power dropped away, a good amount of otherwordly beauty slipped with it. And yeah, vamp photos worked just right. It's them that didn't like to be snapped: as if they weren't sure what would come on the film.

Okay, so the hair, the silver-induced burns and oh, Gosh. Someone had extracted her heart. Not ripped away: it was too precise, way too cold. Just a long incision between the breast, neatly resewed with a silver thread.

Still, Shawn found himself gulping. Knocking out a vampire is one Hell of a problem, and the only proofed way was by blood loss. Blood is life, weapon, symbol, all at the same time: removing the heart you get rid of the core of the magic too. Leaving the vamp with all the time to understand what is happening and to feel his body rotting alive.

It was devastating, awful and very effective.

-Crap- he blurted out. -Holy holy crap.-

-Glad you got the gravity of the circumstances, Mr. Spencer.- The Chief commented. -So, what's your first impression?-

Shawn swallowed. The photo details came back to him, shimmered, _talked. _

-Whoever it is, he's no amateur. He used a plastic-silver legacy for the cords, so he knew it stands out less than a pure silver chain, and works even better. He extracted the vamp's heart, not stabbed it. So he knew.- He shivered. Felt the urge to watch Lassie, _standing and frowning and with all the pieces in place. _-He knew what's the least messy way to kill them. And he did it with great...skills.-

After that, he expected the Chief to be satisfied: he had come in time, did his job and without even much fuss. He expected to be ordered to stay at Lassie's orders and shooed out of the office, which meant she was proud of the work.

Neither came. And looking back to her, Shawn saw the very expression you would never imagine on a godly powerful witch.

She looked sick.

Gus furrowed his golden eyebrows.

-Chief, is there something wrong?-

Vick ignored them. Turned to her detectives.

-So you were right. It had begun.-

-Blasted Hell!- Lassie blurted.

-Damn!- Jules gasped.

-I didn't expect for it to start so soon.- Lassie hissed softly, rushing a hand through his hair.-It's too soon. It's way too soon.-

Shawn followed the exchange, between mesmerized and alarmed. -Why are you two swearing? You never swear, so if you do the mess is bad _oh there is a mess how bad is the mess?_-

-The mess is...- the Head Detective took a useless breath. -...bad enough.-

Gus squeaked. -And you never talk like_ a normal person_!-

-Silence! Everyone!-

Vick's voice flooded the room, pouring over them in a choking wave. The air thickened. The Chief didn't move: but there was a shift of things under her face, shadows rolling along the wall shelves and that shouldn't be there. Lassie stiffened, Jules jerked back with startled grace; even Shawn's bones buzzed with power. It was fire, thunder and landslide at the same time. It was nature, and it was horribly scaring.

Obviously, the show sobered them greatly. Shawn and Gus seated more straight, and the detectives managed some composure. Lassie's hands were still twitching. Silence perfect.

-Very well.- Vick enunciated. -Now, Spencer. As my detectives had questionably pointed out, the circumstances are serious. Even more if your intuitions are correct.-

- Yeah, I got that feeling. So, what's the big secret?-

-The big secret?-

- Being a Vamp Hunter's firstborn is awful for your social life, but at least it teaches you to grasp the things before they eat you. And in three years I've never seen Lassie-fangs looking like he was in a stake factory. So, I'll ask you again.- He leaned forward, speaking slowly.- What's the point, guys?-

After that the three cops fell silent again, and Shawn assisted at the fiercest Duty-bouncing match of his life. The Chief watched Lassie, he widened his blue blue eyes at Jules, she looked at her feet, and all over again. Poing-poing-poing. In the end the Chief stared at her Head Detective with a strange twitch of the eyebrow, and Lassie magically gave in.

Lassie took a step forward, jaw. He shouldn't have been too different on his horse, haranguing his troops against the Southern Army.

-The killed vampire was Rebecca Settemani, the Chief Lieutenant of the Santa Barbara coven. She was three hundred years old, one of the Mistress's most prominent advisors. And she is the third of us to be killed in less than a month.-

Gus remembered to be there. - The third? I haven't read anything about it. The Other Gazette should have said something.-

- Victoria did not want to spread the happening too largely. Other covens hovered around us like raging crows, either by greed or fear: showing any sign of weakness would be foolish. But now three of us, three favorites of the Court, had been murdered in their own land. This was hardly tolerable by itself; and if you are right, Spencer.-

- What? World would implode?-

- ... If you're right, something wide has begun. Victoria warned me. Victoria foresaw it.-

The detective glared. Shawn wore his Super Confident smile.

-And she summoned us.-

The words spilled over them like buckets of ice. Gus whimpered loudly, mumbling some passionate curses in Ancient Persian.

Shawn gulped, staring at Lassie. The Super Confidence crumpled a bit.

Victoria, Mistress of Santa Barbara, undead goddess for more than five centuries and known for three as the Bones Wife. Victoria, the one that had brought her dead children to the colonies over the ocean and filled the bedtime rhymes of half Europe kids, _watch watch the Wife of Bones, drags you too under the stones_. Victoria, the one that had seduced, killed, and trained Lassie for more than one hundred years.

He gave a look around, at the otherworldly scared faces of his gang.

And now, Victoria wanted to meet them all. Her former favorite, a werewolf, a jinn, and a renegade vampire hunter.

_Oh crap_.

-Well, guys- Shawn blurted. -and here I thought this Halloween would be boring.-

_Ah, this has been so much fun to write, guys: from the characters to the world where they go around. Moreover I discovered our Psych gang is perfect in Supernatural form: there are lots of correspondences. For example. Hunter-Shawn is still fighting with the sturdy stiffness of his Da's education and had turned upside-down his training; Gus is a Jinn because he likes running in nice safe places (like a lamp) and would sometimes like to be untouchable like a spirit. Jules is a were-wolf for her lingering anger issues, and Lassie, so out-of-time, so border-line as he sometimes is, is the perfect vamp. Yep, Psych works in Supernatural Mode too._


End file.
